My Cup of Tea
by Fleuve Chanson
Summary: "He's either incredibly bored, or being ridiculously much in love," was Mycroft Holmes' explanation for Sherlock's odd behavoir, and even though he desperately wished the latter to be untrue, Sherlock always knew how to prove him wrong.
1. Chapter 1

"**My Cup of Tea"**

"Fifty-five years old," Molly informed Sherlock as she showed him one of the corpses she kept in the morgue. A tall man, white as a sheet. His legs were broken, twisted in odd angles, and his arms were bruised and cut. "Suffered from amnesia. Most likely for years. Didn't know what or who he was whatsoever. He died in a car accident, we assume that he forgot he doesn't know how to drive even though he has a driver's license. Quite a tragedy, really." She showed a pitiful smile, mostly meant for the dead man, and Sherlock ignored it completely.

"How was the amnesia caused in the first place?" he asked as he inspected the man's broken body. He had minor bruises on either cheeks but his nose was most certainly badly injured. Broken, unquestionably. Three of his tooth were missing: yanked out violently: the tooth roots were also missing.

"A brain injury," said Molly from a distance, carefully not to disrupt the slender man's work. "Three years ago, approximately, if I'm right its cause was a stroke. But if you look here," she shuffled closer and carefully shifted the dead man's head to the left, "this seems to be a wound caused by a bullet, shot from up close. It's an old wound, though."

"I'll take it," Sherlock acquainted with a genuine, but fake, smile.

"Take what?" asked Molly, circumspectly. She was fidgeting with the buttons of her cardigan to keep her attention drawn anywhere but Sherlock. She wondered why she still couldn't act normal around the man. For Christ's sake, Molly, she'd tell herself, he has been living in your apartment for over two years already, don't be such a prude!

"The head, of course!" Sherlock told her, in the familiar isn't-it-obvious? tone. "Now, if you'd rather have me sawing it off, it'll be my pleasure," he directly started moving towards one of the cupboards of which he knew Molly kept her apparatus in and started rummaging through the devices the forensic barely ever used. The girl watched him flabbergasted but was afraid to argue, so she kept her arms crossed over her chest securely and her lips shut tight. Then at once, the man turned and said, "I presume that it's no problem?"

"No!" she said in an awkwardly loud volume. She swallowed and tried to smile, trying to look as halcyon as she could, and then she said in a low voice, "No, no problem at all." Her tone was awfully anxious. Once again she swallowed but felt relieved as she saw Sherlock turning away, of course, completely oblivious of her inconvenient fluster.

Sherlock sawed off the head as if it was a thing he did on a daily basis. He used one of Molly's pink towels, at which he scowled unbelievingly before he wrapped it around the bare end of the neck. Out of the horrible dishabille wound gushed a strange foul pus sort of liquid all over Molly's beloved cloth. "I hope the family wants their man to be incinerated. Imagine the shock such a corpse would cause!" and thereby, the man disappeared into the white corridors.

The only thing left of him now was his familiar scent, whereof Molly couldn't decide whether it was cologne or not (she'd never seen a bottle of any sort of perfume around her bathroom. Not to mention that Sherlock often used her shampoo when he ran out of the soap yet again). Perhaps it indeed was just his body scent. Also, an echo of "See you soon!" lingered in the rather empty room. Molly sighed. Left alone, once again.

She had genuinely thought that Sherlock had mutual feelings for her when he'd asked her to help him. She thought he finally would return her ache for affection, but nothing she had hoped to happen had happened. One courageous night she'd asked him if he wanted to sleep in her bed, whereupon he'd replied, "If you don't mind the sofa?"

She'd been left in her living room that night with not only a fit of weeping that made her feel uncontrollably, emotionally juvenile, but also with a nagging voice in the back of her head that whispered depressing comments about whatever you can make depressing comments about. And not only did she look ridiculous the next morning, her eyes puffy and her lips swollen, but she also woke up with a stiff neck and a cramp in both her legs.

That morning, she decided she was too stupid, too naïve.

Later that same afternoon, she came home to find her living room filled with a thick fog caused by cigarettes, and a strange stench that lingered in between it. She opened all windows possible and when most of the smoke had dissolved, Molly found Sherlock sitting at the dining table, with in front of him the head he'd sawed off earlier that afternoon. It was cut open neatly right on top of the skull, and Sherlock was operating in it with Molly's cutlery, scrutinizing every tiny bit of flesh and liquid that the insides of the poor man's head contained. The strange stench had presumably been a result of another experiment, which included the leftovers of the broken nose and burning acid. The debris was still hissing.

"Sherlock," she greeted him nonchalantly as she placed her bag onto one of the fauteuils.

The man grunted as a reply. He didn't even bother to look up from his experiment.

"Had a good day?" she tried.

He didn't reply, for the brains he was spading through made an odd mushy noise. He rose from his seat and picked up the head tenuously, muttering, "Interesting," and then threw it into the garbage bin with such a great force Molly swore she could hear the brains dropping out of the skull. "How _remarkable!" _Sherlock said, obviously agitated. "Dashing! Dandy! Marvelous!" he raged. "Oh, how incredible!"

"Sherlock-"

"Tedious!" he yelled. "Tedious! Why can't someone die an unnatural death? Just one―_one _unnatural death!"

"Sherlock, please-"

"Molly, shut your mouth!" the detective, if you could call him that still, cried and dropped down into the chair he had been sitting in most of his day. His expression mad, his face turned redder every second. He breathed loudly, ferociously, and then he slammed his hands onto the tabletop and furiously said, "If I don't get something alike a case within one day, I promise, I will die of boredom."

"Sherlock, you told me not to tell anyone you're alive," Molly said slowly, "where do you expect me to get a case from? I can't just nick a case out of DI Lestrade's office!"

"Oh, you are so boring!" Sherlock yelled at her. "How long has it been?"

"What?" tried Molly.

"You know what I mean!" Sherlock said, his tone dangerously ominous.

"Over two years," Molly replied against her will, "if I'm right, two years and eleven months."

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Two years and eleven months since solving a case. Two years and eleven months since entering my apartment. Two years and eleven months since playing the violin, since drinking John's―two years and eleven months since John," he added, knitting his eyebrows together. "Oh, I am a horrible man."

"Sherlock, no need to overreact," Molly once again tried to cut in.

"Who else have I left? Mycroft – well, if he counts. He probably hasn't even noticed I left." Molly tried to cut in again. She wanted to say how often Mycroft had appeared in front of the press to defend his little brother's pride. His dignity. But Sherlock didn't allow her to. "Greg – oh, how's he doing? I don't even know! My favourite, dumb-witted detective inspector in whole Scotland Yard. And Misses Hudson, I wonder how she is doing - but wait. Does John still live in 221b Baker Street?"

"Sherlock, I must admit I haven't seen John for quite a while. Neither has Lestrade. He's the only one of the four persons I have been to with recently. Lestrade told me John misses you," Molly sighed, "a lot."

"John misses me!" cried Sherlock, burying his face in his hands. "I am starting to doubt whether I am grieving now because of boredom, or really because I miss my former life. Let's say the latter is not the case," Sherlock muttered, but he found himself unconvinced of his own statement. "I did it for a reason - I did it to protect them -" he tried to defend himself, knowing that he couldn't talk away his guilt. "Maye I really just should meet up with Lestrade. Just simply to get a case. To release myself from all this mundane jibber jabber."

"It's your decision, Sherlock," Molly said.

"It is, thank you very much," Sherlock snapped. "Now let's give him a call, shall we? Ask him over for dinner."

Molly smiled nervously while nodding. Asking Greg over for dinner? What will people think?

"Just dinner, you idiot," Sherlock added.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading, please leave a review. <em>


	2. Chapter 2

"**My Cup of Tea"  
><strong>**Chapter 2**

Molly had been genuinely anxious about calling Lestrade. And of course he had sounded surprised when Molly had asked him if he'd like to come to dinner. So she'd added, as quick as she could, "Not romantically, of course. Nothing romantic involved," which had been followed by a relieved sigh on the one side of the line and a girly giggle on the other.

"Sure," said Lestrade, "I'll be around at seven."

When five o'clock came around, Sherlock started to look unhealthily pale. He was fidgeting with the buttons of his blouse and when Molly would asked him why he was so nervous, he'd reply he wasn't. At six, it became worse. Sherlock started walking around the living room like madman, breathing loudly. Molly decided not to interfere but found herself stuck in a dilemma whether to or not to cancel the dinner.

"What're you cooking?" asked Sherlock as he peeked into the frying pan over her shoulder.

"Pasta," Molly replied as she remained perfectly still, Sherlock's breath tickling her neck.

"Pasta? You know I hate pasta," said Sherlock annoyed. When six thirty came, Sherlock left the living room. And when the doorbell rang five after seven, Sherlock still hadn't returned from wherever he was hiding.

Molly took the precaution not to yell his name, for she new Lestrade would hear her. So she went to open the door instead, hoping that when she came back into the living room, Sherlock would just sit at the dining table. She yanked open the door and greeted Lestrade casually, thanking him for the flowers he'd brought. She tried to ease the tension by smiling and telling him he shouldn't have brought anything, but it didn't work out as she planned. So she ushered him into the living room.

"What's this all about, Molly?" Asked Lestrade as he took a seat.

"Well, you know," Molly started, as she looked around agitatedly, looking for Sherlock, who seemed to have disappeared into thin air. "Just some – important matters," she said as she turned around once again. "Would you excuse me, just for a moment?"

Lestrade shrugged confused.

"Please, help yourself," she nodded at the fridge as she disappeared into the hallway. "Sherlock!" she whispered as hard as she could. She stormed through the small apartment in search of the man, unable to find him. She entered the mess that was Sherlock's room and discovered an oddly sized bump in the middle of the bed and once again whispered, "Sherlock!"

The bump moved. She threw off the quilt, revealing Sherlock curled up in a fetal position. His chin rested on his chest and his arms were wrapped around his legs. "Sherlock," she said, her tone not nearly as angry as she wanted it to be. "Come out, Lestrade's waiting for you."

"You told him I'm here?" asked Sherlock, suddenly shocked. He searched for her eyes and looked into them madly.

Molly sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Of course I didn't. Come on, Sherlock!"

"I'm not in the mood," replied Sherlock, as he turned and tried to pull the quilt over his head again.

"No!" said Molly, awkwardly pulling the quilt off him again. "You're coming, and now!" her voice shook under her demanding words, but she was rather pleased by the outcome. Sherlock sighed deeply as he rolled off the bed and pulled himself together quickly. "Alright," Molly said, "He's in the kitchen. You go, I'll be with you in a minute."

In the meanwhile, Greg was sitting at the dining table confusedly, not daring to move. He had heard voices, and desperately wondered with who Molly could possibly live, and why he came here, and what was so incredibly important. But answers didn't come. The conversation the voices were having sounded rather heated. Greg raised his eyebrows, asking himself since when Molly had found the guts to argue with someone. Whatever, he told himself.

He was still waiting until Molly would come back and when he heard footsteps coming his way he started saying, "Molly, is everything al-" but couldn't get himself to say more.

Silently, Greg cursed at himself. He didn't seem to be able to find his tongue as he looked up to the figure standing in the doorpost. If he was to say what he felt that exact same moment, he'd probably would've started with dismayed; but then utterly relieved. "Sherlock," he eventually muttered, adding, "Oh, you bastard!"

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just moved towards the chair opposite of Greg's and sat down, staring at the detective inspector cautiously. "You're not going to faint, are you?"

"I don't think so," said Greg, but huffed thereafter. "Jesus! You gave me quite a shocker there!"

Sherlock showed a sad smile and pushed his lips onto each other violently, awkwardly waiting for Lestrade to say something. Mostly, Sherlock had thought this to be completely different. Lestrade maybe would've punched him. Well, he had called him a bastard, which wasn't as bad as a punch, but ever so unkind.

Lestrade could only find a look in Sherlock's eyes he believed to never had seen before. Those eyes used to be cold, mean, often daring. But now they showed a look of utter disappointment. Why, Lestrade couldn't tell.

"So," said Lestrade, as he folded his hands, "where the bloody hell have you been?"

"Not here," replied Sherlock easily.

"What does that mean, 'not here'?"

"It means that I wasn't in the neighbourhood."

"Yes, I got that," said Lestrade, sighing, "when you weren't around, where were you?"

Sherlock shrugged carelessly as he tried to think of all the places he'd been. "Los Angeles. Detroit. New York. Smaller cities of which I have deleted the names."

"What were you doing in America?" asked Lestrade, as he looked at the door. Sherlock realized that Greg was feeling horribly uncomfortable and called for Molly to come, wondering whatever the girl had been doing. Well, not really. He knew she was doing her hair. Maybe adding a new layer of lipstick.

"Hunting down Moriarty's auxiliaries."

"Interesting," muttered Lestrade. Molly came in and told the two men that dinner was ready if they wanted.

"Nah," Sherlock said. "Not hungry. I'm going to my room."

"Just wait a moment," said Greg, eyeing both Sherlock and Molly suspiciously, "you are going to your _room?"_

"I think that's what it's called," Sherlock replied, mockingly.

"I meant, Molly, you knew of this all along?"

"Well, of course not really–"

"For God's sake," Sherlock cut in, "of course she knew. She was involved from the beginning off. Now excuse me-"

"Just one more thing, Sherlock," said Greg before Sherlock could leave the room, "who else knows?"

"You. Molly," replied Sherlock.

"Just us?" asked Greg.

Sherlock replied with a simple nod.

"John doesn't know yet?" asked Greg.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Oh."

"He'll know soon," said Sherlock, before he left the room.

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><p><em>Please review! <em>


	3. Chapter 3

"**My Cup of Tea"  
><strong>**Chapter 3**

It was half past ten when Mycroft decided to stroll around the large garden that spread behind the large building that was the Diogenes Club as he realized the weather was rather kind for a September night. As he gathered his belongings, including his cherished umbrella which he took along with him out of precaution – the weather in England is rather changeable – he hummed a cheery song, and even though his happiness was queer to him, he felt as if he was unstoppable.

Mycroft had been right. He hadn't been able to distinguish the light rainfall that fell from the skies slowly as he had sat at his desk, but even more surprising, he didn't seem to mind. He didn't even bother to use his umbrella as he let the small drops of water fall onto him, slowly dripping off his nose.

What made Mycroft even gladder was seeing a full moon hanging above the trees on his right sight. He was quite fond of the moon, and sometimes he could even appreciate stars, and when some odd occurrence came to happen, such as a solar eclipse or whatever those things were called, he often found himself staring out of his window. The moon illuminated the whole backyard, which proudly showed off its beauty. If only Mycroft hadn't heard those damned footsteps.

They were slow footsteps, the footsteps of perhaps a man who was also out to wander, or perhaps even a man who was lost in his thought. But Mycroft immediately knew better: he knew those footsteps, he'd recognize them anywhere.

"Sherlock," he said, his tone demanding, dignified as it always was, "how nice of you to come."

"Brother," was Sherlock's simple greeting.

"Come now," said Mycroft, his tone cynically offended, "aren't you supposed to be glad to see me? I presume you haven't seen much familiar faces the last couple of months – years, even."

Sherlock replied, "I suppose you should feel mutual?"

"Who says I don't?" asked Mycroft, as he turned to his brother. He was startled at what he saw. The man had always been slender but he looked even more sunken than ever before. The skin hung over his high cheekbones lightly. He was pale in the moonlight: horrifyingly pale. And there was no sign of a smile whatsoever. Mycroft wondered for a moment whether his brother had even smiled the last years of his life – whether he ever would again. "I must say, Sherlock, you look horrible."

"And I must say that you've got fatter," said Sherlock, as he sucked in all the air he could, most annoyed. Mycroft and he never had a good relationship and seeing how easily Mycroft seemed to handle this, Sherlock once again felt disappointed. Again, just like he'd been when he'd met Lestrade. Silently he cursed himself.

"Now brother!" said Mycroft excitedly as he saw the look in Sherlock's eyes, "Disappointed, are we? I should've known. You've always been quite the attention seeker. What did you expect me to do? Cry? Hug you? Dear me."

Sherlock didn't trust himself to reply. He pressed his lips together tightly as he stared in front of him.

"We both can't deny this, Sherlock. We both aren't the – how to say – affectionate types, are we now?" Mycroft huffed as he saw how Sherlock's disappointed expression turned into solemn annoyance, "But I must add that I am glad to see you again. And before you ask, of course I knew." Mycroft grinned proudly.

"How did you?"

"Brother's instinct, I'd say," replied Mycroft and winked at his brother. "I knew you weren't dead. I knew you aren't a fraud. But also, I know that Moriarty isn't dead either, and I also know that he's been looking for you."

"I am actually most certain that I won't be bothered by Moriarty anymore," replied Sherlock as he shrugged easily. "And I knew he was alive, however he did it. If I could manage to stay alive, he could too."

"Clever presumption," said Mycroft with a smug smile on his face, "as I could've expected."

"Oh, please," Sherlock pretended to be flattered and showed Mycroft the fakest smile possible. "Now, dear brother, I must say that of course I am disappointed. But of course we all know what a fool you can be," Sherlock showed a genuine smile as he told his brother, "Indeed I am disappointed, but I am not a teenage girl, I don't need you to show me your affection. You know, while I have been hunting Moriarty's men in America, I had some time to think. To wonder. And I came to one concluding question." Slowly, the smug smile on Mycroft's face disappeared, "How could you? How could you betray your own brother?"

Mycroft didn't reply. Mycroft also knew he didn't have to reply. So he stared at the moon and tried to fathom that he could see that round planet even though it was so many miles away. And he didn't bother to say anything, for he knew Sherlock. He knew Sherlock could answer the question himself. Mycroft slipped his hands into his pockets and turned to his brother, and he said, both because he wanted to know and to subtly change the subject, "Does he know yet?"

"No," replied Sherlock, and this time it was his turn to keep staring at the big round moon in front of them.

"You know he is hurt, don't you?" Mycroft told Sherlock, and kept staring at his brother who refused to look back at him. "I have been watching him, just in case – you never know. He was your best friend, Sherlock, and one that is most certainly one to keep. Now, if you are willing to take my advice-" Sherlock wanted to make some sarcastic comment but Mycroft cut him off easily, "-make him your priority. He needs you more than anyone, he needs to know you're alive."

"I know," Sherlock replied with a stubborn expression on his face like a child who had to say sorry to whom he had just stole their sandwich from, "that doesn't mean that I am going to."

"Oh, believe me," said Mycroft, once again a smile appeared on his face, "you are going to. And maybe you don't want to-" Sherlock turned to Mycroft, his expression unbelieving, an expression Mycroft hadn't yet seen before, "-but I'll make you."

"You won't," said Sherlock.

"Oh yes, I will," replied Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at his brother as he slowly shook his head. "You know, Mycroft, stop interfering in my life. Did I ever meddle in all your governmental business? Your secret relationship?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to show one of the expressions he didn't often show, an unbelieving frown appeared on his face. "I have never, ever tried to interfere because I knew that you wouldn't very much appreciate it," Mycroft's expression turned startled at the just told phrase, "and what am I getting back? Alright, Mycroft, I get it. I can't change you. But trust me, you will lose your friends if you're going to spy on them, even I know that."

And without even a good-bye, Sherlock turned around and disappeared into the night, and Mycroft stood disbelievingly, staring at the darkness wherein Sherlock had disappeared, trying to distinguish his brother's slender figure but being unable to. He licked his lips and sighed deeply, telling himself to pull himself together for Christ's sake, and started moving towards the Diogenes Club, getting ready to depart.

The picture of Mycroft's horrified, dubious look was proudly burned onto Sherlock's retina. He enjoyed the look on his brother's face over and over again and Sherlock made the mental note never to delete it. Perhaps he'd frame it and give it a special place in his gallery of favourite expressions, wherein already hung the photograph of Jim Moriarty proffering how he'd look when Sherlock would shoot him in the pool that one night, and of John's expression of when he found an exposed brain in the fridge. He loved all the pictures and cherished them, and he most certainly new that this new picture would be a crown jewel in his collection. He slipped his hands into his pockets as Mycroft had done earlier.

But one thing Sherlock couldn't get out of his head. It was what Mycroft had said about John. About how John needed Sherlock most of all people. And Sherlock of course new it, and he hated that he knew it, and he despised himself greatly for leaving John alone. But he didn't have a choice.

But it kept following him. Sherlock could even hear Mycroft's voice, nagging, "Sherlock, just go to him – Sherlock, you need to go and see him – Sherlock, make him your priority."

And eventually, it drove Sherlock mad. Half an hour ago he had decided to walk to Molly's apartment but changed his mind drastically. He stopped a taxi, which stopped in front of him immediately after he'd yelled for one, and when he had made himself comfortable in a chair, and had pulled himself together, he told the driver to go to 221b Baker Street.

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><p>AN: I don't know when I'll be able to write so I've decided to update two chapters tonight. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review!


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